The King Is Dead
by Bialy
Summary: It’s a power play. That’s how it begun, and that's how it is now, in the claustrophobic heat of their shared room, as they press together in the semi-shadows. L/Light. M. Smut. Some spoilers.


Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. The quote is T S Eliot.

Note: This is for Star Jinin for all her lovely reviews of my stories. She wanted smut and I needed to practice L/Light anyway, so why the heck not? This is how I'd want the pairing to be if I were to ship for it. Not my usual type of writing, so please be forgiving if it's totally awful. Star, hope you like.

x

**The King Is Dead**

-

_This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper_

-

It's a power play. That's how it begun, back when it was two anonymous figures at a standoff across the airwaves, and that's how it's going to end. That's how it is now, too, in the semi-shadows, in the claustrophobic heat of their shared room, in the bed on the left-hand side of the room, with the sheets pulled back.

Light is on top. L reaches up, automatically, faking submission, to undo the buttons of his shirt.

It is different tonight and they both know it.

The midnight interludes are nothing new – for as long as L's had his own building, as long as they've been bound together, lust and plans have overflowed. For his part, the heat and the gasping moments clothed in the dark of the room are ways of getting closer to Light, ways of trying to get him to lower his guard long enough for L to work out _who he is_.

Light's hands are on his shoulders. He's pushing him down and there's something ugly in his eyes. L's fingers pry apart the final button, and his hands run up Light's chest – youthful, masculine, so much tauter than L's own – to push the material away from him. It's awkward, and because of the handcuffs, only one sleeve can come off. So, as usual, they leave it, straining at his back like half a rope pressed against the shining boy above him.

And Light – what did he want from this? Originally, it had been something L hadn't expected. Originally, what Light had wanted had been – well, L.

With his unchained hand, Light reaches down and pulls at L's top. It's an impatient, rough gesture, as if the removal of clothes is no longer a kind of delicious foreplay, but an inconvenience to be overcome. It pulls the wrong way against L's neck, first uncomfortable, and then painful, as Light presses their hips together.

Tonight is very, very different. Tonight, Light doesn't want to _have _L – he wants to break him.

Then broken he shall be.

L's top ends up bunched by his handcuff, off as much as it's going to get. Light leans back, regarding L in the same way a lion may look at an antelope. Slender, artistic fingers, much more elegant than L's ever could be, descend, alighting next to his neck. Smooth, trailing strokes work their way downwards, lingering, swirling, and then moving again, all while Light keeps his eyes fixed on L's face.

L wears no belt and the button on his jeans is loose. Light flicks it loose, pulls down the zip, his hand grazing places where, if L had any sense of decency, it oughtn't be grazing.

L lost all sense of decency on their second night together, when Light gasped and cried "Ryuzaki!"

What's worse, he thinks, as he loosens Light's belt, is that he knows Light is Kira. If he wasn't before – if he'd forgotten – he is now. Tonight.

He's going to sleep with Kira. He's going to fuck – no, he's going to let himself _be fucked_ by Kira.

"Light –" L lowers his gaze to focus on finding the loops of Light's belt, about to ask him something, anything, to break the breathless silence, to pretend like he's still investigating Kira.

"Don't talk, Ryuzaki. Not tonight." His tone is not harsh, but it is heavy with command – Light has _ordered_ him to silence, and L stops talking.

Light's belt comes away and L fumbles with undoing his trousers. He's not sure why he's fumbling beyond the fact that suddenly, away from all reason, he's nervous. He's unsure of himself. He's back-footed, he's on the bottom, he's being _taken_ –

He can feel Light's hardness against his hands as he works the beige trousers down of the boy's hips. Vaguely, he thinks that this is probably a felony, too, because isn't Light seventeen? He touches Light through the thinness of his boxers, and the boy smirks – so much older and darker than he should be, with those angel eyes and the beautifully falling hair.

L's jeans don't get pushed down. Instead, with a gentle, insistent hand, Light works L out of his boxers, running his hand over him, encouraging him to let out a single, low moan at his ministrations. Light's boxers must have been pushed down when L wasn't looking because now the boy is naked on top of him, lean, the suggestion of muscles on his body making blood rush to where Light is touching him. His hair is falling forwards, and he looks flushed, exicted...

The hand caressing L begins to guide him underneath Light, and for a moment, L is thrown. He had been sure that tonight was about possession, and control, a fight for dominance...which was why he had given up, rolled over, submitted without a fight. To throw Light off. But now...

Oh. Light – Light knew. And now Light was throwing _him_ off...Oh, Light was far too smart for his own good, far too brilliant to be –

And then Light's hand pressed L into him, and L's thoughts cut off.

Light sinks down onto him, leaning forward, his breath hot against L's neck. His tongue snakes out, tracing something down the tense skin, and his hips begin to move. Almost against his will, L's begin to move with them

And he's been kidding himself if for a second he thought he would have an ounce of control here tonight.

Light pulls against him, presses, moans in a way that was designed to provoke L's lust. His own hardness is pressed between L's stomach and his own, and the feel of it is yet another reminder for L just how out of control he's become. And L behaves exactly as Light wants him to, and this time, it isn't out of design, but out of desire. His thoughts are foggy, his breath is getting ragged, his heart is pumping blood up to pounds in his ears -

Then into his ear, Light breathed his name.

"_L_."

And he loses himself.

Later, when L has regained control of his breathing and his heart has slowed to a gentle jog, and Light is lying next to him, a hand draped possessively over his chest in a sham of affection, he realises that he was the only one to finish. Light's final victory over him tonight, he guesses. Choosing whether or not he'd come.

L almost laughs. It's so silly, so trivial, and somehow, that's started to matter. Everything between them has, as proof that Light is Kira or L is onto him, nothing can just be a reaction to events from a human being. And maybe that's how it's meant to be, when people like them meet.

Lying there in the dark, in Light's barbed embrace, he knows that he's going to die. And just for a couple of minutes, he feels every one of his twenty five years, and he feels _afraid_ and he's _scared_ of what's coming after. He doesn't want it to be over. He doesn't want to just – stop. To be so alive now, to be here, his heart beating, full of blood and spent lust, and then to just...not be.

And his last few days are being spent letting his murderer bring him to ecstasy.

It strikes him that he is going to be killed, ultimately, by his lover. And the word is apt, it really is, because for a time – in between L realising that Light was not the Light he'd known before, and the time when Light had changed back – their interludes had been tender, gasping and passionate. They had been mutual, and honest.

Light will remember that, now that he's back to his old self. His soul bared for Kira to mock and enjoy.

L is not used to feeling. The something in the pit of his stomach, then, is completely foreign to him, and he hasn't understood what it was for quite some time. But now, he's beginning to.

But it's too late now, and really, L thinks, it might be time to stop caring.

He knows he won't, though. Caring was always the thing he lacked, and now – now it's undoing him, seam by seam, taking him apart.

In the darkness, he smiles.

It's poetic justice, really.


End file.
